The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro
by Westron Wynde
Summary: When a pretty seaside village finds its streets terrorised by a cyclist with an unusual agenda, Holmes and Watson are called upon to investigate a Cornish horror of a different kind! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**For David. Because stories should always be finished.**

_So, despite Dr Watson's reservations, despite Mr Holmes's objections, keeping its tongue firmly in its cheek (and a fig leaf handy to spare our blushes), finally unleashed on the world is (with certain of the facts changed to protect the innocent and embarrassed)…_

**_The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro_**

**Chapter One**

"Are you aware," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat one fine morning in the spring of 1899 relishing an after-breakfast smoke, "that the last man who could claim he had read every work published in his lifetime was the polymath, Thomas Young?"

I regarded him warily over the top of my paper, alert to the fact that I was about to receive a lecture about the shortcomings of the press, the world at large and possibly my own failings as a biographer. I had expected as much for he had been restless all morning, and when a cursory perusal of the day's news had provided little diversion, he had turned his ever-active attention to the nearest thing at hand, a penny dreadful I had bought in a moment of weakness at Victoria Station and had never had the heart to finish.

"Imagine the wealth of knowledge and the breadth of talent at his disposal," Holmes went on, puffing thoughtfully at his long pipe. "The intellect of the man was formidable; there was not a subject on which he could not converse. And yet, sixty years on since Young's death and, despite all our alleged advances, the man who would attempt a similar feat today would find himself in a worse state than the fellow who had read nothing. Indeed, I contend that his intelligence would be fatally compromised by the exercise. Take this publication, for example, _'The Malicious Murder of Sir Lionel Swain'_."

He sniffed with ill-disguised contempt as he held up the novel for my inspection.

"I would scarce call it work of literature, for to do so would bestow a sense of grandeur on a collection of words so loosely strung together that they would embarrass the gutter press. Why _do_ you waste your time on such unmitigated nonsense, my dear fellow?"

"Idle curiosity."

"Idle indeed, if you had nothing better on which to waste your money than this."

I smiled to myself, certain that I knew the cause for this indignation.

"The identity of the murderer eluded you then?"

Holmes scowled. "It was perfectly obvious that it was the son-in-law from the outset. Had the author continued in such a vein, then one might have said that the story was not without merit. That the author chose to muddy the waters with the introduction of a band of scheming monks a few pages from the end reduced the tale to nothing more than a Gothick fantasy. To have the abbot masquerading as the fellow's butler to my mind was an insult to one's intelligence too far. And the reason for this slaying?"

He turned to the appropriate page, cleared his throat and began to read aloud as though an audience of thousands hung on his every word.

" '_I hate you'_," he proclaimed in a shrill, imperious voice, clearly warming to the role. " _'Yes, I hate you all, every last one of you, from the tallest to the smallest. I've never been given the regard I deserved. You've all turned your backs on me, yes, you, my lord and you, my lady, with the pretty nose and lofty airs. But I, I am your equal, and I have brought you down, yes, down, sir! At my hand it was, because it was more than you deserved. I shall destroy you all, yes, me, I shall do it, me and no other!'_ "

By the time he had finished, I was quite insensible with laughter. I have noted elsewhere that Holmes would have made a fine actor, and his rendition of the piece, suitably pitched to make the most of its melodramatic pretensions, was a performance which would not have been out of place on a more prestigious stage than our poor rooms.

"Dear me," said he, as we struggled to contain our mirth, "it is as well for us, Watson, that all our cases do not feature such over-blown sentiment, or we should be never to be able to penetrate the mire of human existence."

"Do you not consider a universal hatred of mankind to be a plausible motive for murder?" I asked.

"I would not be so impetuous as to dismiss it entirely, but I contend that it is rare. The roots of many a crime are far more prosaic, however tortuous the route from cause to effect. A mere glance through those journals of yours would provide you with ample evidence that far more common are love, greed, and even fear as the criminal's primary considerations. As I have often told you, it is a capital mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The more _outré_ incident may prove to have the least interesting explanation, whereas the simplest may be quite the opposite and possibly all the more fascinating for it."

"From the point of view of the specialist perhaps," I remarked. "I doubt that the victims of these unfortunate crimes would agree with you."

Holmes tossed aside the book and sighed petulantly. "I dare say you are right. However, it is small consolation to me, becalmed as am I without a breath of crime to stir my sails. Yes, Mrs Hudson, what is it?"

The landlady entered to announce that a gentleman had called, desirous of an interview with Mr Holmes. At this, his eyes lit with an eager gleam and he leapt up from his chair to greet our caller.

The man who entered was some fifty years of age, stout of girth, spindly of leg and the proud owner of several double chins that wobbled from his jowls with his every movement to bestow upon him the appearance of a genial walrus. His eyes appeared to be half buried in the fleshiness of his round face, at which he dabbed and fussed to distraction with a copious handkerchief. He subsided onto the sofa at Holmes's behest with a sound midway between a sob and a groan and began to regale us with his unhappy tale.

"Forgive the intrusion so early in the day, Mr Holmes, but a matter of the utmost importance brings me to you. Your name is spoken of with the deepest esteem by greater men than my poor self and I knew that if you could not help me, then none could. I throw myself upon your mercy, sir. Without your assistance, I am a ruined man!"

Holmes is as susceptible to flattery as the next man and I could tell from the beginnings of a smile that twitched the corners of his lips that he was suitably intrigued by the little he had heard.

"Calm yourself, sir," said he, looking over the gentleman in that searching fashion of his. "Watson, a brandy for our guest, for the journey from Cornwall is a long one and liable to induce that regrettable nausea that is the curse of the infrequent traveller. Now, how may I be of assistance? I trust it is not solely on account of your rivalry with the chairman of the Treperro parish council that you are here today?"

The man near choked as he took a sip of the alcohol I had given him. "Good heavens, Mr Holmes!" he cried. "Do not say that my unhappy circumstances have come to be known even here in London?"

Holmes eased himself into his chair and favoured him with a tolerant smile. "My dear sir, you have a copy of _The Cornish Messenger_ protruding from your pocket. Although a worthy publication, the news contained within its pages holds little fascination for anyone who dwells beyond the borders of that county. That it has been much read suggests that you have brought it with you. Your accent too confirms your Cornish roots, which remains as strong as ever, despite your legal work requiring your tenure until recently in the capital."

"It is true," said our guest, now quite aghast. "I am a Cornishman, born and bred, lately returned to the village where I spent my childhood and have moved my practice to the nearby town of Looe, although for many years I was a solicitor here in London. My name is Henry Ewart Tregrehan and I am indeed a member of the parish council of Treperro. As to the rest, Mr Holmes, I am quite baffled as to how you know so much about me."

"Your hat, Mr Tregrehan, bears a distinctive maker's mark, unique to Harris of Piccadilly, a favourite with the legal profession. Since they went out of business some three years ago, you must have made your purchase before then. As fine as their reputation was, few would travel over two hundred miles simply to purchase a hat. Therefore, you must have been resident in London at the time. When I see your watch-chain bearing the London hallmark for 1878, there can be no doubt as to the length of your tenure being a long one. As to your travel sickness, you have a few specks of ginger on your lapel, Mr Tregrehan, which if memory serves has long been recommended in the annals of country lore for the treatment of the delicate stomach."

"Upon my word, that is indeed the case! I have always had an aversion to travel because of my unsettled constitution. Even when the sea is as calm as a millpond, the effect upon me can be most unfortunate. Ginger, however, has often proved to be my deliverance from such malaises."

"There is often much truth in these old wives' tales," said I. "That would also account for your being an infrequent traveller."

"That, and the fact that Mr Tregrehan had an inadequate quantity of reading material to keep himself amused during the journey," Holmes remarked. "I note that your boredom turned to mischief, and led to the defacement of the picture which is captioned 'the Chairman of the Treperro Parish Council'. Only the holding of so deep a grudge would account for such treatment of his image. "

Tregrehan extracted the paper from his pocket and stared at the face rendered somewhat ridiculous by the pencilled addition of a bushy beard, twirling moustaches, glasses and big ears.

"He is an odious fellow," said he, regarding his handiwork with some little satisfaction. "And coarse with it. Well, what is one to expect when a butcher is promoted to such rank? However, it is not my doing. I did not vote for him. And there's the rub, Mr Holmes. He knows of my dislike and has appointed me to this task in the sure and certain knowledge that I must fail. Then he will have me ejected from the council and who then will stand against his excesses?"

"My dear Mr Tregrehan," said Holmes with a tone of weary patience, "I fear you have adopted the approach of my friend and associate, Dr Watson, in telling your tale backwards. Please, sir, let me have the facts, unencumbered by these rambling irrelevancies."

Tregrehan mopped glistening droplets from his brow and a little of his former earnestness returned to his voice. "It does have a bearing on the case, of that I am sure. But, as you say, I must stick to facts. Well, sir, Treperro is not a large village, and I dare say you may think that it's all much ado about nothing, but we have pride, sir, pride enough to have created the position of mayor to represent our small corner of the world and raise our standing above our neighbours. It's a pretty place, Mr Holmes. Fishing is our main industry, and it's a hard life in the winter, but come the summer, when the sun gleams on the whitewashed cottages and the wide blue Atlantic runs up to the—"

"Most charming," said Holmes, never one to enjoy the word-painting of the English coastline. "Some great cloud now hangs over this idyll, I take it?"

"Indeed it does, Mr Holmes, indeed it does. As I say, the village is most attractive and in recent years we have played host to many painters, both amateur and professional, who have endeavoured to capture the ambiance of the place. Many of them are ladies, of the most upright and genteel nature. One especially, Lady St Juliot, has favoured us with her presence for these last five summers and would not think, so she has told us, of spending her time anywhere else. Should news of this reach her ladyship's ears, then she would be most displeased and I fear our loss would be our neighbours' gain."

Holmes sighed and glared at our visitor over his arched fingers. "Come to the point, Mr Tregrehan," he said.

"The point is…" Tregrehan glanced nervously at us. "The point is, Mr Holmes, that just recently our village has been terrorised."

"By?"

"By a man." A look of distinct unease had come to his face. "A man who rides about libelling the good people of Treperro."

"Libelling?" said Holmes with interest. "A most enlightening choice of words, Mr Tregrehan. Surely you mean slandering?"

"No," said our guest with decision. "For these lies are written for all to see."

Holmes's brow knitted. "Written? By a man on a bicycle as he rides? Come, sir, there is more to this than you are telling us."

Once again, the handkerchief was applied to his moist cheeks. "I hardly know how to describe it, Mr Holmes. It is somewhat awkward."

By now, I was perplexed and as desirous as Holmes to know the facts behind this case. "You may rest assured," said I, "that we shall treat whatever you tell us in confidence."

"Confidence, yes," said Tregrehan with a nervous laugh. "If news of this reaches the press, we shall be ruined." He swallowed and took to wiping the steam from his glasses while he spoke. "Very well, I see that I must be candid. These lies are written where one cannot fail to notice them. In short, they are written across the rider's back."

Holmes sat forward in his chair. "Most singular. Do you mean to say that this rider disports himself about the village…?"

"Quite naked, yes, sir."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"You must forgive Dr Watson," said Holmes, rather amusedly. "The medical profession has yet to overcome its aversion to the human body in its natural state. Do go on with your narrative, Mr Tregrehan."

"It is a terrible thing to see," said he when I had refilled his glass and he had fortified himself. "He wears not a stitch, save for his shoes and a large straw hat pulled down low to conceal his face. If her ladyship was to see this outrageous spectacle, I fear the shock would turn her hair white."

"As remarkable as your story is," I said, "I fail to see how you expect us to help."

"But you must!" cried Tregrehan. "Bulstrode – the Mayor, curse him! – has given me the task of discovering the identity of this rider and I fear I am quite unequal to the challenge. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I appeal to you, if not for me, then for Treperro and the dear ladies who visit, please do not abandon us in our hour of need!"

"In my professional opinion, sir, it sounds more a case for a doctor than a detective. Isn't that right, Holmes?"

He had been lost in a brown study, apparently absorbed in a close examination of the toe of his boot. At my question, he looked up.

"Quite mad, this fellow on the bicycle, wouldn't you say?" I said.

"On the contrary, I would say there is a certain method in his somewhat eccentric behaviour," Holmes replied. "You were well advised in coming to me, Mr Tregrehan. This problem of yours presents some points of interest. I would not miss it for worlds."

The light of hope sprang up in our visitor's eyes. "Then you'll come?"

"Certainly I shall, and without delay. Where is my Bradshaw? Ah, the train for Looe leaves on the hour, I see. We shall journey together, Mr Tregrehan, that is, if I may prevail upon you, Watson, to join us?"

"By all means."

"Capital! Good day, Mr Tregrehan. Wait for us at the station."

While he spoke, he had been ushering the gentleman to the door. With a final farewell, he shut the door, regarded me with a gleam of mischievous anticipation in his eye and rubbed his hands briskly together.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

"A most unpleasant business, if you ask me. Are you sure this is wise?"

He swept past me into his room and I heard the clatter of falling objects as he slung the few things he needed for the journey into a case. "You think not?"

"A naked man on a bicycle, writing messages on his bare back – it's positively obscene, and, may I say, beneath you, Holmes. Solitary cyclists are one thing; nude cyclists quite another!"

A hearty chuckle came to my ears. "You imagine that my reputation, such as it is, shall surely suffer from my involvement in this adventure? If I were to tell you that this fellow is as far from being mad as either you or I, would that set your mind at rest?"

"I fail to see how you could have arrived at such a conclusion."

He emerged from his room bearing a small travelling bag. "The shoes, my dear fellow, the shoes. A man may forsake all else, but to ride without good shoe leather between one's feet and the pedal is unthinkable, not to mention uncomfortable. That, and the fact he has taken pains to conceal his identity is, I think, conclusive as to his sanity. Now, may I trouble you to pack? We do not want to miss our train."

"Should I take my service revolver?"

"No, I don't not think that will be necessary. Given the circumstances, had the gentleman been armed, I'm sure Mr Tregrehan would have noticed it."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Two!**_

* * *

_If you're thinking that this story seems familiar, that's because it is. It was two chapters in when I made the mistake of deleting the whole story. Now, with the final chapters done, it's being reposted. Well, I couldn't leave you to wonder what happened to that Nude Cyclist, could I?_


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro_**

**Chapter Two**

The journey to Treperro was long and tiresome, made all the worse by Mr Tregrehan's longiloquence. To call it conversation would be to give it a grandeur it did not deserve, for it was almost entirely one-sided and my place in the proceedings was confined to little more than the occasional word of agreement or nod of the head. That he had a need to talk to stave off the effects of travel was evident and, willing or not, I had been assigned the role of listener.

As is often the case when a person finds a doctor at their mercy, he began by delving deeply into the matter of his health. He told me how he felt when he woke up in the morning. He told me how he felt when he went to bed. He told me how walking up hills made him breathless and how large meals made him feel sluggish. Finally, after an hour of these windy descriptions of comparatively normal symptoms, I was asked for a diagnosis.

I had scarce time to open my mouth before I was informed that in his considered opinion he was suffering from a strain on his constitution produced by over-work and worry. He had read somewhere that it was all due to his having an under-active spleen and as a precaution was taking a patent formula designed to encourage the organ into its proper function.

I would have been concerned had he not produced the bottle of pills for my inspection and I satisfied myself that they contained little more than a mixture of water, sugar and essence of mint. Since he said that he had never felt better, I decided against disillusioning him as the efficacy of the pills, not that he would have given me much opportunity to speak in any case.

After that, he fell into lecturing me about his other interests, which were many and omnifarious. Throughout, he demanded my full attention, calling me back to the conversation when he perceived that my mind was wandering, and always insisting that we maintain eye-contact. My only escape was by regularly excusing myself, which I did so many times that I fear I created the impression of a weakness. Even the enjoyment of a quiet smoke was denied to me, for the conductor rattled the door handle and told me bluntly that other people were waiting to use the facilities. I returned to our compartment with a heavy step and an even heavier heart, little consoled by the knowledge that I would not have to endure Tregrehan's company forever.

A little help from our fellow passenger would have been welcome, but Holmes had absented himself before we had left London by settling himself in the corner and closing his eyes. He was not asleep, for every now and then I saw his eyes open briefly to take in the view of the countryside that dashed past our window or for a surreptitious look at his watch. This was lost on Tregrehan, content as he was to have at least one person in his captive audience.

Only when the conversation turned to the events in Treperro did I detect a stir of interest from Holmes. I gathered that our garrulous companion had finally said something worthy of his attention.

"But how such wickedness can flourish in this day and age, Doctor, is beyond me," Tregrehan was saying. "The local police are worse than useless. Small Treperro may be, but we deserve more than the one constable assigned to us. And he is quite inadequate for the task. I would go so far as to say that he turns a blind eye to this fellow's activities. He won't lay a trap and he's never to be found when the cyclist is abroad."

I nodded in sympathy, having long ago given up trying to add anything meaningful to the discussion.

"What is worse is that his superiors at Looe condone this behaviour. When I complained not a week ago, I was told that we were making mountains out of molehills. Furthermore, they said that if we simply ignored him, he would go away. But I ask you, Doctor, as a reasonable man, how are we to ignore him when he casts such slurs on good people? Mrs James cannot show her face at the market after he said that her lace was shop-bought rather than made at home as she has always claimed."

"Was it?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.

Tregrehan paused for the first time since we had left London, and gave my question some thought. "Well, I don't rightly know. It was rather _good_ lace, and some said it was machine-made long before this cyclist starting spreading rumours, but Mrs James always held that she made it with her own fair hands. I have no reason to doubt her. Still, a nod's as good as a wink to some people, and they'll believe what they will. As for Mr Daley, the landlord of the Treperro Arms, why, I've even heard his regular customers agree with the cyclist's claim that he has been watering down his ale. Our once peaceful community is in turmoil. All trust is gone. Meanwhile, we wait and fear what next this man will say. Who shall escape calumny, Doctor?"

"Who indeed," said Holmes, finally condescending to join our conversation. His voice sounded a little sleepy, although his eyes were as bright and clear as drops of seawater. "Of what did the cyclist accuse you, Mr Tregrehan?"

Any initial pleasure Tregrehan may have taken from having increased his audience by another member was soon blighted by the nature of Holmes's inquiry.

"Well, it's rather embarrassing—"

"Only if it's true."

Tregrehan bridled. "Of course it isn't."

"Then you have no reason not to tell us."

Spots of colour appeared on the man's cheeks. "Since you insist, Mr Holmes, he accused me of being a pettifogger."

"Did he now?" Holmes's tone of voice suggested he was not altogether surprised by this revelation. "Well, well, that is not so bad. Many a solicitor has been called worse. But in relation to what exactly? From what you have said, your cyclist is specific as to details."

Tregrehan squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Ezra Trebah's cottage."

"Do go on, Mr Tregrehan. Rest assured that whatever you tell us will be in the strictest of confidence."

"There was nothing untoward about the business, I can assure you," said he hastily. "Old Ezra was a tenant, you understand, of William Trematon, who died last year. Under the terms of his will, any tenant residing in one of his properties at the time of his death was to be given the option of buying it. Well, it was obvious to one and all that Ezra was never going to find the money, what with his health keeping him from going out with the fishing fleet as often as he would have liked, so I gave him a week and then offered it to another party."

"Someone who could pay more?"

He cast a guilty glance at Holmes. "As executor, I was obliged to obtain the highest price possible for the property. Mr Wilderspin was willing to pay decent money and take on old Ezra as a sitting tenant. Naturally, he had to increase the rent. Trematon had been a wealthy man and had only ever asked Ezra for a tenth of what it was worth. Ezra couldn't pay and had to move out."

"What became of him?" I asked.

Tregrehan ran his tongue around his lips. "He died a few months ago in the Bodmin workhouse. Poor old man, he always said he'd die if he couldn't see the sea. But it wasn't my fault, I assure you."

"Your cyclist disagrees, Mr Tregrehan," Holmes remarked.

"But why, sir? It was done according to the law. Had I given old Ezra a year to find the money, the result would have been the same."

"Quite so. What has been the result of his claims?"

Tregrehan swallowed hard. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, which he took to dabbing away with a large red and white spotted handkerchief.

"It cost me the position of chairman on the parish council, of that I am certain. I had considerable support until this man cast these scurrilous slurs against me. Instead they voted in that butcher fellow, Bulstrode. It is unfair, Mr Holmes. I have done nothing wrong."

"I'm sure you did what you could for Mr Trebah," Holmes said coolly, his tone suggesting that he thought otherwise. "I take it Mr Wilderspin has come in for criticism?"

"He let the cottage after Ezra moved out to summer visitors. What else was he to do? Over the winter a lady has been living there. The cyclist has made claims that she is…" He cleared his throat. "Rather more than a friend of Mr Wilderspin's. Although," he added hastily, "she seems perfectly respectable to me."

"I take it she is not a villager?"

"Well, no. Mrs Rose Smith is her name. I understand she lived in Manchester before she moved to Treperro."

"Have all the cyclist's accusations been directed at outsiders?"

Tregrehan thought for a moment. "Now you come to mention it, Mr Holmes, yes, they have. But I was born in Treperro. Why have I alone been singled out for criticism?"

His voice had become strident and rattling with indignation. His agitation increased when Holmes took his time in answering, and under his level, disconcerting gaze, Tregrehan displayed signs of acute discomfort, finally manifesting themselves in his rising to his feet and excusing himself on a matter of some urgency.

"There seems to be a good deal of it about," Holmes said, smiling wryly at me when we were alone. "First you, Watson, and now Tregrehan. I do wish you had said before we left Baker Street that you were unwell. I would never have called upon your time had I known. Five times in the space of three hours is a little worrying, even under these trying conditions."

"It was merely a diversion, Holmes. But then you knew that."

His smile broadened. "Yes, I detected the distinctive smell of your usual mix of tobacco when you returned. Really, our Mr Tregrehan is a tiresome fellow. I wonder that you were able to tolerate him for so long."

"I had very little choice. We cannot all close our eyes and pretend to sleep."

He took my censure with good humour. "Then let us make the most of his absence. You took my point about the cyclist's victims?"

"That they were not villagers, yes. But I fail to see how you came to that conclusion."

"How does the old saying go? _'By Tre, Pol and Pen, shall ye know all Cornishmen'_. James, Daley, Wilderspin, Smith – they are not typically Cornish names. It was reasonable to assume that they had come late to Treperro."

"Ah, but not Mr Tregrehan. There your theory falls down, Holmes."

He shook his head. "By his own admission, he has not lived in Treperro for a very long time. And when he did return, his actions may have suggested that he was not working in the best interests of the remaining villagers."

"Yes, I thought that pretty heartless, having an old man thrown out of the home he'd inhabited all his life."

"It adds weight to my belief that the cyclist is not mad. As to his motive, we would not go far wrong in stating that he has appointed himself as Treperro's conscience. Certainly there is a case to answer. An old man loses his home and ends his days in the workhouse. The landlord sells watered-down ale to his customers. A woman attempts to profit from the labour of others by passing off the work as her own. It is important to him that these things, however small, do not go unnoticed."

"I can appreciate that, Holmes, but why does he have to do it naked?"

"Can you think of any better method of making people take notice? You will have often observed that it is the costermonger who shouts the loudest and the longest who invariably attracts the most customers. So it is with our cyclist. His nakedness is a means to an end, nothing more."

I could not agree with him. "There must be more respectable methods of achieving his aims. Why does he not write letters to the press to state his case or publicly denounce these people?"

Holmes, however, was no longer listening, and his eyes had taken on that introspective glaze that spoke of the stirring of his thoughts.

"One would always wish to stand on the side of the angels," said he, when my inquiry brought him from his brown study. "The difficulty is in knowing which side that is. I find myself in something of a dilemma, Watson. I have a mind not to interfere. Our cyclist appears to be doing an admirable job of keeping Treperro honest."

"You cannot condone his running about in the altogether."

The light of amusement danced in his eyes. "Delicately put, my dear fellow. But, yes, you are quite correct. One must consider the detrimental effect of his actions on the community as a whole, and the consequences to himself if he is caught. His intentions are good, but his method irregular. I must intervene, if only to save him from himself."

This line of reasoning seemed preposterous to me. "If you _can_ make him see sense, which I doubt," I said. "However, it seems to me that anyone who would take to the highways and byways without a stitch of clothing between his bare—"

"Watson, I do believe I've had occasion to remind you about that pawky humour of yours before."

I shook my head impatiently. "I was going to say that anyone who goes about without a stitch of clothing between his bare _flesh_ and a gritty country road can't be entirely right in the head."

"I have every confidence he will see sense."

"Assuming you are able to apprehend him in the first place."

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. "It has been many a year since I have heard you express doubt about my abilities, old friend. Age, it seems, has staled my infinite variety. If you consider that I am not equal to the task of discerning the identity of a naked man on a bicycle, then it is high time I left the stage and took up gentler diversions."

"All I meant, Holmes, was that the good people of Treperro don't appear to have had much success in catching him."

"Perhaps they were not trying too hard."

"Well, the matter seems simple enough to me. Find the bicycle and you have your man."

"My dear Watson, that remark is worthy of Scotland Yard," said he, shaking his head. "Were all problems so transparent, I should find myself out of work and my occupation obsolete."

I tried not to take offence at his off-hand dismissal of what seemed to me an excellent suggestion.

"Your mistake is starting from the erroneous position of assuming that it is his bicycle. The man has intelligence and a keen sense of justice. Now, I ask you, would such a man who has taken such pains to conceal his identity then ride about the village on a machine which would immediately identify him?"

"What if he does not live in the village?"

"Ah, but he does. How else would he be aware of the landlord's activities, or Mrs James's shop-bought lace or the relations between Mr Wilderspin and his lady tenant? There is little in a village that is not known to its residents. Remember what Thomas Hood said about the _'prattling, tattling village of Tringham'_."

"Then why does this man feel the need to make the gossip public if it is already known?"

Holmes tapped his fingers on his chin thoughtfully and gazed at the view. "I believe we will find that the old and new residents of Treperro do not rub along together as happily as our companion would have us believe. Nor should we expect any co-operation. We will be seen in the company of Mr Tregrehan and so assumed to be allying ourselves with the new villagers, the outsiders as it were. If nothing else, Watson, discovering the identity of our nude cyclist will certainly present a challenge!"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Three!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro_**

**Chapter Three**

Our first sight of Treperro was from the Looe road, a four-mile journey along lanes as muddy as a farm yard and lined with hedgerows, bristling with birds and the first wildflowers of spring. The village lay sprawled down the side of combe, where a jumble of whitewashed cottages jostled for space and clung to the sloping valley sides like shellfish stranded by the ebb tide. Smaller dwellings, the homes of fishermen, clustered around a horseshoe-shaped harbour, from whence rose the sounds of milling seagulls and the intoxicating smells of the sea, nectar to the weary soul of a London dweller.

My first suspicion that discovering the identity of our mystery cyclist would prove a challenge came when a group of young ladies on bicycles came riding by our trap, ringing their bells, chattering like sparrows and making our pony shy. A pretty sight they made, with the long ribbons of their hats streaming out behind them and red-cheeked from their physical exertions. Behind them puffed an older man, who was clearly having difficulty keeping up. As he passed, he turned on us the expression of a man who had long given up any hope of ever seeing his home and family again and could offer only the most perfunctory of replies to Mr Tregrehan's greeting.

"Mr Dean," Tregrehan told us. "He's owns a printing shop in Looe. Those are his daughters. Lovely girls, if a trifle outspoken." He lowered his voice. "The eldest is one of those… you know, suffragists."

"You disapprove," said Holmes.

"Most certainly I do. Why do women want the vote, that's what I'd like to know."

"Presumably to make their political preferences known."

"So they say. But you ask me, Mr Holmes, it's more than that. Look at poor Mr Dean. He does everything for those girls of his and they won't let him use Old Ned."

"Old Ned?" I queried.

"His old bay gelding, Doctor. They say it's cruel to him, making him walk up and down hills at his age. But they think nothing of causing cruelty to their father by putting him on a bicycle, and him a man of fifty-three. They say it's for his health, poor devil."

"I have heard that cycling is beneficial in such respects."

"And I've heard that a man can do himself a mischief on one of those contraptions. No, Dr Watson, I'm no supporter of bicycles. It's the preserve of cranks and faddists as far as I'm concerned. You take your life in your hands crossing the road, what with these thoughtless folks charging straight at you without ever touching their brakes. Why, Mr Godstone ran over old Mrs Trevellick's cat not last week. That cat was the friendliest creature in Treperro, but now it runs from the very sight of people. I'd ban them all if it was up to me, and when I get to be chairman of the parish council, it's the first thing I'll be doing, believe me. My thinking is this: if the good Lord had meant us to cycle, then He'd have given us wheels. Instead, He gave us horses."

"And the automobile," said Holmes.

"They'll never catch on, great noisy, smelly brutes. It's my belief that horses will still be with us when another hundred years have passed. As for women getting the vote…" He shook his head. "You'd have thought the cyclist would have had something to say about the antics of Mr Dean's daughter, but no. Good people he defames, but he'll not say a word against the real troublemakers. I heard she was arrested for standing outside Looe Town Hall with a banner and calling our local Member of Parliament a name that made his wife faint from shock. Disgraceful behaviour for a young lady. Whatever is the world coming to, gentlemen? Ah, but here's Mr Penhale. Good day, vicar."

We pulled up alongside a thin, wiry man of about sixty, who had been making his way cautiously down the muddy road with the aid of a walking stick and a good deal of patience. I should add that his trousers were perfectly clean and pressed as sharp as a razor blade until our pony splashed through a puddle and dappled him with mud from shoe to knee. He took it in good grace, however, although I thought I detected the merest trace of annoyance in the watery blue eyes that burned beneath his shaggy grey eyebrows.

"Ah, Mr Tregrehan, home from your travels, I see," said he, graciously enough.

"Safe and sound, God willing. Have you found your peregrines?"

The elderly clergyman regretfully shook his head. "They should have returned by now. You haven't seen them by any chance?"

"No, vicar, I haven't."

"I begin to fear that some disaster has overtaken them." He gave a sad little sigh and then smiled up at us. "You, however, have had greater success in finding your friends, I see. Welcome to Treperro, gentlemen."

"This Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson," said Tregrehan. "They've come to help us with our 'problem'."

"Most regrettable, most regrettable. But tell me, Mr Tregrehan, how do you propose to catch the man when all our attempts have failed?"

"I do not, Reverend," said Tregrehan with exaggerated patience. "Mr Holmes is a detective. From London."

His old eyes twinkled with polite interest. "A London policeman. Well, well, we are favoured."

"No, he's a private detective."

"A consulting detective more accurately," I interposed.

"Good heavens!" cried Penhale. "Not _the_ Mr Sherlock Holmes of Oxford Street."

"Baker Street," I corrected him.

"Yes, yes, I remember now. Oh, what was it? No, don't tell me. Yes, I have it – 122B Caxton Street!" He seemed pleased with himself, despite the inaccuracy of his information. "Didn't you have an accident or something or other, out in Italy or some such place?"

"Some years ago," said Holmes, who had struggling to contain his amusement during this interchange. He reached down and shook the vicar's outstretched hand. "Happily the situation worked out to my advantage."

"Ah, yes, the Lord moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform," said Penhale, bowing slightly. "God go with you in your endeavour, Mr Holmes."

Tregrehan nodded to our driver and we were soon on our way again, coating the unfortunate vicar with a further coating of mud as we did so.

"You'll have to forgive Mr Penhale," said Tregrehan. "He has days when he wanders. His mind isn't what it was, poor fellow. He spends most of his time now wandering the cliffs looking out for those birds of his."

"Ah, yes, I noticed his interest in the peregrines," I said. "He's an ornithologist?"

"I should say rather an oologist," Holmes remarked.

"Why, Mr Holmes, however did you know that?" said Tregrehan, clearly bemused by this pronouncement. "Mr Penhale's collection of eggs is a fine one, to be sure, with specimens from all over the world. But how the deuce you were able to tell that—"

"The man who would collect eggs requires a delicate touch. Mr Penhale has very soft hands."

"Bless my soul, you know I'd never noticed that. Soft hands, indeed. Well, he's a good sort is Mr Penhale. There's not a coarse or ungenerous bone in the man's body, not like that butcher, Bulstrode. I fear this business with this cyclist will be the death of him."

"He's seen the mystery cyclist?" I asked.

"Yes, Doctor, we all have." He cleared his throat. "We've all seen rather _too_ much of him if you ask me. But if you want to know when he's appeared, you'd best speak to Widow Trehare. She keeps a record. She sits by her window watching out for him, brave soul."

Holmes said nothing, but offered me a wry smile. While Mr Tregrehan continued with his tales of the woes of village life, blissfully ignorant of our inattention, we wended our way past the lichen-covered medieval church of St Petroc, perched high above the houses, which presented their tapestry of tiles and slate amidst scattered patches of green and the occasional glimpse of a cobbled road. Down in the harbour, coloured boats lay stranded on the mud, whilst out at sea, seagulls bobbed on the calm waters and rose as one to follow the wake of an incoming trawler.

The appeal to the artistic mind was evident; at every turn of the road, a new scene presented itself or a new angle took shape. Whether art was aping life or life art, I could not say, except that I had the distinct impression that I had wandered from reality into a painted unreal world where naked cyclists roamed the streets and elderly women peeped from behind their curtains, ready to record his every move for posterity. Pretty as a picture it may have been, but the sense of dislocation was unsettling and it was soon impressed upon me that Treperro was not a place in which I should like to linger for any length of time.

Our journey came to an end at the top end of the village, for the winding lanes leading down to the harbour were too narrow to allow for the passage of a horse and wagon. A man in a cloth cap with ruddy cheeks was making his way slowly up the incline towards us, pushing a barrow loaded with fish guts before him. He stared at us long and hard before issuing something by way of greeting that sounded like 'yup' to Mr Tregrehan whilst reserving a wary silence for us. In that one meeting, I acknowledged the truth of Holmes's prediction. We are strangers, allied with the village newcomers, and what help we were likely to get from the old villagers was scant.

If Holmes was equal to dabbling in the art of prophesy, then I too was able to foresee a problem in our pursuit of our quarry. As we descended from the trap, I heard the regular ring of iron beating iron from a low shed where the blacksmith was about his trade. A horse stood in the yard, content in its chewing of a long piece of hay that dangled from its mouth, somewhat lost in the surrounding sea of bicycles to which the master craftsmen had recently turned his hand and skills. Lent haphazardly against walls, some new and ready for sale, others muddy and awaiting attention, they appeared to be of the same make and colour, distinguished only by the shape of the frames as being models for either ladies or gentlemen.

Considering the discussion we had had upon this point on the train, I saw that Holmes had been perceptive in dismissing my suggestion that identifying the cyclist's bicycle would lead to its owner, albeit for a different reason than he had put forward. If the good people of Treperro all rode the same brand of bicycle, it would not matter one jot if our naked libelist used his own machine in his escapades or that belonging to someone else. Even if he was given to caution, here too were bicycles for the taking: one could easily be borrowed and returned before the blacksmith had ever registered its loss.

Holmes caught the drift of my thoughts when he saw the direction of my gaze and smiled. "A pretty problem, Watson," said he. "Our cyclist would seem to have everything in his favour."

"An irregularity I hope to address now you're here, Mr Holmes," said Tregrehan. "I'd like to see the fellow clapped in irons for the trouble and distress he's caused to decent people here in Treperro."

"You may have to settle for a cessation of his activities. Our presence here today might be enough to warn him off."

This prospect evidently did not satisfy the lawyer, and it took Holmes's next statement to mollify the man's thwarted desire for the full force of the law to descend upon the miscreant.

"Besides which, Mr Tregrehan, it is surely better for Treperro that this man is not brought before the justices. To give him his day in court would do little to enhance anyone's reputation."

Tregrehan's brow unknotted as he saw the wisdom of my friend's words. "Well, Mr Holmes, as you say, although at the very least, I'd like the man's name. He'll be hounded from Treperro for what he's done, sir."

I had some sympathy for his stance, but Holmes found a good deal of amusement in the man's indignation. Whatever he was thinking he chose to keep to himself and only I, who knew but slightly how to read the shade of his thoughts on his features, had any understanding of faint smile that had momentarily lifted the corners of his mouth. We kept our counsel as we followed Tregrehan through the maze of cobbled streets to the lodgings he had arranged for our stay. As we descended down towards the harbour, a rambling tavern with blackened timbers and white-washed walls bearing the name 'Treperro Arms' presented itself at the junction of two equalling rambling lanes. This I took to be our destination and here indeed the lawyer stopped to catch his breath.

On entering the establishment, I had the impression of stepping from the nineteenth century and encountering a scene not changed since Bluff King Hal sat upon the throne and set his wives' heads a-rolling. The interior was dark and oppressive, made all the more so by the lowness of the ceiling and the overwhelmingly strong smells of stale bitter and the lingering odours of the previous night's meal. The tankards arranged on the bar had the look of worn pewter about them, as did the seemingly ancient platters lining the shelves. The effect was quite evocative; indeed, had the bar been thronged with salty sailors, dressed in jerkins, leather caps and woollen hose, swapping tales about pirates and smugglers, I should not have been at all surprised.

As it was, somewhat in opposition to my romantic notions, the sole occupant of the place was the landlord, Mr Daley, a large, sandy-haired man with a distinct South London accent, who informed us that his wife had made their two best rooms available in readiness for our arrival. There was also, so he told us, a tandem at our disposal should we need to take a more active course in pursuing our man.

"It's the only way to get about here in Treperro," explained the landlord. "Bicycles were a blessing around here, although I know Mr Tregrehan don't agree. Can't get a horse up and down these lanes, you see, on account of their slipping when it rains. As for the tandem, sir, we were thinking, since we can't catch this fellow under our own power, that you two gentlemen might stand a better chance together."

Undeniably there was a certain logic to this way of thinking, for two men may produce greater speed than one man alone. I trusted, however, it would not come to that. I rather doubted my ability to live up to these expectations should the opportunity arise, for a tandem is not the easiest of machines to master and I have found from long and painful experience that it is hard enough for one man to maintain his balance, let alone two.

I had intended to put these misgivings to Holmes, but when I entered his room, I found him in reflective mood. That part of his nature inherited from artistic forbears could be easily impressed by his surroundings, and as I beheld him, seated upon the window ledge, with the sash thrown up and the rising clouds of his cigarette drifting out over the lanes and rooftops below, I saw that the scene had caught something of his imagination and was occupying his thoughts.

"Idyllic, isn't it?" I ventured.

He continued to stare out at the distant view of the harbour. "Is it?"

"Come now, Holmes, even you must agree there is something ineffable about the place."

"Yes. It is the air of decay."

I scoffed at this reply. "I cannot agree with you there."

"No? Well, perhaps I have seen rather more than you have, my dear fellow."

I joined him at the window and squinted out at the sun-bleached houses and glinting Atlantic waters. "I see nothing that would indicate such a bleak description."

"It is what you don't see," said he, offering me a cigarette from his case. "The lingering death of a way of life, Watson. It hangs over this village like the Sword of Damocles. As stand on the threshold of the twentieth century, I cannot help but wonder if places like Treperro will survive to see the next. Heaven knows we cannot stand in the way of progress. In our years, we have seen change enough."

"Change for the better."

"Undoubtedly, in some cases. In others, less so. In particular, I am thinking of that telephone you insisted we install at Baker Street."

I was taken aback to hear him mention it. It was true that he had initially been resistant to my suggestion, although I had hoped that a demonstration of its practical value had long since won him over.

"You cannot deny that the telephone has been a boon."

"On occasion," he conceded. "Other times, I find myself at the beck and call of anyone who happens to pick my number from the London Directory."

"How often does that happen?"

"More often than I care to mention."

"Come now, Holmes, you exaggerate," I said, chuckling at his earnestness. "As for Treperro, I see no reason for such a gloomy prospect. Why, the village's survival seems to be assured with the arrival of new blood."

"What of the old blood? What of men like Ezra Trebah?" Holmes took a moment to draw thoughtfully on his cigarette. "I have already told you, Watson, that I am not sure where my sympathies lie in this case. Our man is fighting a battle that was lost long ago. One man cannot turn back the rising tide, as King Cnut discovered. Already this village has seen change. Take this tavern, for example."

"I thought it rather redolent of bygone ages."

"My dear fellow, a building, like a woman, is only as old as it looks. I saw you becoming misty-eyed with nostalgia when we entered. Does it alter your romantic notions of the place if I were to tell you that those beams I observed you admiring had only been added in the last five years?"

"I don't believe a word of it. They are as old as time itself."

"Next time you are in the bar, take a closer look at their construction. Wooden pegs and dovetail joints were the means chosen by medieval carpenters for binding a building together. Nails are a relatively modern introduction in the materials of house-building. Then when I see the heads have still a shine about them and—"

He broke off suddenly with an exclamation. I followed his gaze out of the window to glimpse a man on a bicycle, hat pulled low over his face and written with blue paint on his bare back the words '_Catch me if you can, Sherlock Holmes_'.

"The man has nerve, I'll give him that," said Holmes, jumping to his feet. "He has thrown down the gauntlet and, by thunder, we'll not be found wanting! Quick, Watson, to the tandem!"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Four!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro_**

**Chapter Four**

I must admit to a sense of surprise and alarm at Holmes's decision to tackle our quarry head on, as it were. Surprise, that he should consider our chasing the lewd fellow through the charming Cornish countryside on bicycles appropriate behaviour on our part, and alarm, that our vehicle of choice was to be the tandem.

Anyone who has attempted this infernal contraption may know that it is less a bicycle made for two than an ingenious device for causing more arguments and grazed knees than anything yet invented. Misguided young ladies, for example, will insist that it makes for a pleasant change to share the labour of pedalling with a sweetheart, without ever realising that the aforesaid sweetheart is immediately plunged into the gravest of dilemmas as where one should sit. To allow the lady to sit before might be considered unseemly; to allow her to sit behind might suggest an unchivalrous attitude on the part of the gentleman. Between two gentlemen, no one should ever offer to take the rear seat without a good deal of debate and protestation, least one be accused of laziness; similarly, he who would command the front seat without consideration for his fellow will stand accused of unnecessary arrogance and overweening pride in one's cycling prowess.

Having decided on the seating arrangements, fore and aft, there comes the undignified business of getting the machine to move. The fellow behind becomes over-anxious and pedals too soon; he at the front, or the 'captain' as he is often dubbed, may be either too timid to push the issue or be over-zealous and leave his fellow cyclist struggling to catch up. Either way, it is fair to say that no one comes out of the affair well. I have heard more colourful language employed on the fair roads of England than on the battlefields of Afghanistan whenever a tandem is involved.

I would have put my misgivings about our venture to Holmes had he allowed me, but no sooner had he issued this cringing demand than he was gone from the room with lightning rapidity. Out in the narrow lane, I found our vehicle waiting and a crowd gathered, drawn from their homes first by the hue and cry that followed in the nude cyclist's wake and now lingering for the spectacle of seeing two city types about to make fools of themselves on two wheels.

Holmes had already settled the issue of seating by taking the position of 'captain', a conceit, I thought, based on his belief that he was the better cyclist. This, to my mind, was an entirely erroneous assumption for I considered myself a decent cyclist, although admittedly it was some years since I had last sat on a bicycle. Debating the matter before the good people of Treperro, however, would have been as unedifying as the disturbing sight to which they had already been subjected, and so I kept my objections to myself.

I took my place without demur but with my insides broiling from the slur cast on my abilities. If anyone would end up doing all the work on this venture, it would be me, since Holmes's role was merely that of pilot. No doubt he thought the same, that he would be doing the lion's share of the labour while I took my ease at the back. Certainly, if we failed to catch the fellow, he would blame it on me. Equally, I would return the favour and suggest that had he not dawdled at the front we would have made better time. On the whole, I foresaw not the success Holmes expected, but recriminations and unpleasantness for some time to come, such as only a tandem may produce.

We did, however, set off, somewhat shakily, and to the rousing cheer of the locals. Holmes proved to one of those over-eager cyclists, who give little thought to the poor fellow behind him, so that the pedals rose to smack me in the back of the legs several times before I managed to fall into his rhythm.

At the beginning, it was all downhill. I could have wished for a more judicial application of the brakes and several times I do not know quite how we managed to avoid colliding with a handcart or startled pedestrians. We flew down towards the harbour, occasionally catching a glimpse of our quarry with his blue-worded challenge boldly written across his naked back. At one point, I caught a fleeting image of an elderly woman sat outside her door with a pair of opera glasses trained upon us. This I took to be the widowed Mrs Trehare, keeping up her vigil for the offending cyclist with admirable diligence.

Around the harbour we flowed, parting the tide of drifting seagulls before us like the Red Sea and setting them into noisy, messy flight. Then our path took us inland with the prospect of a steep hill and a stiff climb. Ahead, the cyclist was already halfway up the incline and putting greater distance between us all the time. I stood up on the pedals and puffed and panted, and thought that this might earn me some credit for all my hard work in carrying a fellow who seemed to be putting very little effort into pedalling at all. That he then had the gall to tell me to 'put my back into it' was more than flesh and blood could bear.

I would have had a few home truths to say to Holmes in return, except that my breath had quite deserted me. I was exhausted by the time we crested the hill and I was pleased to note that I was not alone in this state. Holmes was breathing hard and our progress had been reduced to a crawl that would have put an infant to shame. The cyclist had proved his worth and by the time we rounded the corner into a rough country lane, liberally dashed with stones and other farming _disjecta membra_, he was a distant sight.

In the end, all it took was a medium-sized pebble to bring our pursuit to an end. The front wheel hit it and went off at an angle. Our balance compromised, we wobbled for ten yards or so before the wretched machine finally deposited us in a muddy ditch and toppled in after.

We lay there on our backs, winded and trapped in a tangle of mud, slime and pedals, for what seemed like a long time. I was sure I had done myself a mischief, but between my aching muscles and bruised shins, it was hard to tell what other injuries had been incurred. Holmes was unusually quiet and I thought for a moment that he had been knocked insensible. Then, quite to my surprise, he began to laugh, a great hearty guffaw that set the curious cows in the field beyond into a startled stampede.

At first I saw nothing amusing, but when a man laughs so hard that tears begin to roll down his cheeks and his breath comes in fits and starts, it is hard to maintain a stony countenance, and it was not long before I too was laughing at the absurdity of our situation.

"Dear me," said Holmes, finally containing himself, "I fear, Watson, we have not covered ourselves in glory this day."

"Mud, I grant you," I replied. "Are you injured?"

"My tailor's pride has been dealt a grievous blow," said he, indicating the torn sleeve of his coat. "I have every expectation that he will demand a princely sum for its repair. Such is the cost of vanity. But what of you? I trust you have emerged unscathed from our misadventure?"

I assured him that superficially at least I seemed to be intact.

"Then we shall both live to fight another day, which is all to the good. Imagine the headlines had broken our necks in this foolhardy venture: _'Sherlock Holmes killed in pursuit of a naked man'_." He gave a snort of laughter. "One could wish for a better epitaph."

He sat up with surprising agility and pushed the mangled bicycle from our legs. "At least some good as come from the enterprise," said he, inspecting the buckled wheel and twisted handlebars. "This tandem is no fit state to take us anywhere. It appears we are reduced to Shank's pony. However, the day is fair and a stroll back to Treperro will ease our aching bones."

"I have no complaints in that respect," I said, as I took his offered hand and he helped me to my feet. "I would rather walk all the way back to London than have to use that infernal machine again. But I do have to say, Holmes, rarely do I have cause to question your decisions, but chasing the man on a tandem was a little out of the ordinary, even for you."

He smiled. "I would hope you know me well enough to realise that there was a certain method in my madness."

"I thought you were piqued by the man's challenge."

"Really, Watson, when have you ever known me to allow my personal feelings to override my professional instincts?" His tone suggested that I had disappointed him. "However," he added, his voice softening a little, "I will allow that I was 'roused' by the fellow's impudence. One does not like to have one's integrity questioned in public by a man whose methods rival my own for eccentricity. You were not entirely mistaken, my dear fellow."

"Thank you, Holmes."

"Yet it was not my primary motive."

"Then what was?"

"I wanted a closer look at the man. When I saw him first from our window, I was struck by an anomaly that Mr Tregrehan had failed to mention. I had to be sure that my eyes had not deceived me."

"And what – I shudder to ask – did you observe, aside from the fact that he was an elderly man, exceedingly active for his age?"

Holmes's smile deepened. "His hands were not blue."

"Not blue? Ah, you mean from the paint he used to write the words on his back. There's no mystery in that, surely. He wore gloves or washed his hands thoroughly after he had used the paint. If he's a local man, having blue paint on his hands would mark him out as the villain immediately."

"Is that your explanation? Well, I dare say you are right. I would suggest, however, that you ask yourself if his hands were not blue, then what colour were they?"

"How the deuce should I know that?" I returned, a little vexed by these enigmatic ramblings of his. "You were seated up front, Holmes. You had the better chance of seeing his hands than I had."

"You saw him from the window. You saw all that I saw, but failed to draw the obvious inferences."

"Which were?"

"A means of identifying our man."

I stared at him. "Do you mean to say that you know who the fellow is?"

"All in good time, Watson. One should never allow oneself to be swayed by the persuasiveness of circumstantial evidence when an alternative explanation may present itself. For the time being, I suggest we return to Treperro to 'lick our wounds' as the young are fond of saying. Ah, I believe we are in luck. Ho, sir, are you Treperro-bound?"

A pony and trap had been making its way steadily along the lane towards us. The driver, a lean man with a moist, knowing eye and red whiskers and wiry hair to match, pulled up at Holmes's hail and affirmed that he was indeed headed for Treperro. Hauling our mangled bicycle into the rear of the vehicle, we clambered aboard and thanked the gentleman for his consideration. While we exchanged pleasantries, I drew Holmes's attention to a covered lump at our feet, from out of which peeked out several tins of blue paint. Holmes smiled and nodded, indicating that he had already taken note of its colour.

"These roads are no place for a tandem, gentlemen," our driver was opining.

"No place for a horse either," Holmes suggested.

"Aye, you're right there," came the genial reply. "I've already had to stop five to remove stones from Daisy's hooves. What we need is a decent road, seeing as how this is the quickest route from Looe down to the village."

"No doubt you have already presented that suggestion to the town council."

The driver glanced over his shoulder at us. "Why, however, did you know that?"

"By the same means I was able to ascertain that you are Mr Bulstrode, the Mayor of Treperro."

"Bless my soul," cried the fellow. "Have we met, sir? I thought my memory for faces second to none, but here I am, knowing nothing about you and you all about me."

Holmes laughed. "We are not acquainted, Mr Bulstrode, although you may know my name. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson."

"Sherlock Hol—" He paused. "Well, I see it all now. You're that London detective. No doubt you're here to investigate our 'problem'."

"Delicately put, Mr Bulstrode."

"Was it that lawyer, Tregrehan, called you in? I thought as much. Hasn't an idea of his own, so he calls in help. Typical of his profession, using a hammer to crack a nut. Well, I'll be having something to say to him about this. I told him I wanted this kept secret."

"You may rely upon our discretion, Mr Bulstrode," I reassured him. "Indeed, we have seen the cyclist for ourselves."

"Have you now? What did you make of him?"

"He has curious habits," said Holmes diplomatically.

Bulstrode gave a terse laugh. "Curious, you say? Aye, well, they do say there's nowt as queer as folk." Again, he glanced over his shoulder. "You were pursuing him on that there tandem, I take it?"

"Yes, we were until we had a mishap," I said. "I am surprised you did not see him, Mr Bulstrode. You came from the direction in which he was headed."

"I saw no one," said he. "And glad of it. You'd think he'd have more sense, what with that stiff Atlantic wind that whips in from the sea." He shook his head sadly. "I thought I'd left that sort of thing behind me when I moved down to Cornwall. Well, they do say that insanity knows no borders."

"You believe the man insane then?" I asked.

Bulstrode chuckled. "What sane man would take to these bumpy roads with nowt but two tyres and a saddle twixt himself and the road? Mind you, I see that he's got a point."

"With his allegations, you mean."

"Aye, that's as good as word for them as any. Slander some folk say, but there's no smoke without fire, that's what my old mother used to say. We always suspected Mr Daley of watering down his beer, but nowt was ever done about it until our cyclist brought it out in the open."

"You don't entirely disapprove then?"

"I've no problem with what he's got to say," said Bulstrode. "It's his methods that leave me feeling queasy. If he's got a complaint, I'd rather he come to the parish council and tell us about it than running about with it written on his back. That might be how they carry on abroad, but this is Cornwall, gentleman. Imagine what Her Majesty would say if she happened to be visiting and saw this fellow disporting himself in the altogether."

Holmes smiled wryly at me as we bumped and rattled our way towards the first of the houses on the outskirts of the village.

"At a fair guess, Mr Bulstrode," said he, "I dare say she would not be amused."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Five!**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro_**

**Chapter Five**

Our return to Treperro was met with a lesser gathering of onlookers than our departure. Chief among them was Mr Tregrehan, who, on seeing that we had returned empty-handed, began to lament with great exuberance of our ever apprehending the culprit. Holmes did not attempt to reassure him, but instead left him arguing with Mr Bulstrode over what the latter described as his precipitate action of involving outsiders.

For me, his behaviour was conclusive. I had already made up my mind that Bulstrode knew more about the cyclist than he was telling. Now I was convinced that he _was_ the fellow we had chased through the rugged Cornish countryside.

"Interesting theory, Watson," said Holmes, when I put my case to him. "Perhaps you would enlighten me as to your reasoning?"

I fear I was rather more pleased with myself than I ought to have been. "He claimed never to have seen the cyclist," I asserted with confidence. "Yet he must have passed him. The road was a straight one without junctions. Therefore Bulstrode is lying."

Holmes smiled knowingly. "He may be telling the truth. There were numerous fields into which the cyclist could have diverted and hidden until Bulstrode passed. He was some distance away, you remember, far enough not to have witnessed our accident."

"That is a possibility, I grant you. What of his sympathetic manner to the cyclist's activities?"

"Not his activities," Holmes corrected me. "Rather his cause." He chuckled. "If that is the main thrust of your argument, my dear fellow, you would do well to include me in your list of suspects. I too have expressed sympathy with the man's intention."

I chose to ignore what passed for Holmes's sense of humour. "Very well then. What of the tins of blue paint he had in his trap?"

"Ah, yes, the paint," he mused. "I wonder, did you observe on our way through the village that the village hall is being repainted? I see their choice of colour is blue, in keeping with the area's sea-faring connections. The fact the work had been halted and on this, such a fine day for the endeavour, suggested that they lacked the materials necessary to complete the work."

"Even so, that does not entirely rule out Bulstrode," I said, somewhat disgruntled to hear my theories dismissed so readily.

"I agree," returned Holmes, much to my surprise. "With so much blue paint readily at hand, you would do well not to exclude any of Treperro's lean, active, elderly men. Continue with your investigation, Watson, and we will compare notes later."

We had arrived back at the Treperro Arms and had paused outside the door of Holmes's room. His tone suggested a degree of finality that I had not anticipated and, when pressed, he would say no more than that he was going to wash the dirt from his hands and find himself a change of clothes. I have been long accustomed to his evasive manner when the mood took him, but on this occasion I was left curiously dissatisfied by his attitude. I went so far as to ask him what he intended to do next.

"To smoke," said he, "and then to catch the 8.05 back to London."

"You intend to return to Baker Street?" I queried.

"Yes. I would not delay so long, except the earlier train left ten minutes ago and the next has been cancelled."

"But what of our man?"

"I should not worry yourself too much about him. He had has his sport for the day."

"That is not what I meant, Holmes."

"If you chafe after a solution, Watson, may I suggest that you put your remaining time here in Treperro to good use and take a turn about the harbour? Several lungfuls of that sturdy Cornish sea air would do you the world of good. Only be sure of your return by half past six. That should leave us time enough to find our way back to Looe."

With a parting pat on my shoulder, he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him. I was perplexed by his behaviour and a little roused, certainly enough to follow his suggestion and take a turn about the village. This early in the year, with the sun beginning its nightly retreat, the luminescent glow that made the white houses unbearably bright to the eye was fading to grey. Down by the shore, where the crescent-shaped arms of the harbour reached out to embrace the returning fishing boats, several old sea salts sat on benches, smoking their pipes and reflecting on ventures past.

Indeed, everywhere I looked that afternoon, I saw any number of men who could have been the nude cyclist. Lean, elderly and active was a description that could have been applied to the majority of the village's male population. The hard life ploughing the salt waves and Treperro's unforgiving terrain seemed to encourage that very physique.

Nor did they appear particularly perturbed by the cyclist's excesses. On asking several of the fellows whether they had seen him, their reply was suitably indifferent.

"We seen him," said one. "We seen you chasing him an' all." He eyed me keenly. "Dare say you didn't catch him none."

After that, duly humbled and with their laughter ringing in my ears, I kept my inquiries to myself.

On returning to the inn at the appointed hour, I found Holmes waiting for me, hat in hand. Our bags were packed and at his feet, and he gave every sign of a man in readiness for departure. On seeing me, he rose and took up his bag.

"A Mr Trevellick has offered to drive us to the station at Looe," he explained. "We have to make our own way to the main road from here. I fear we have a stiff climb ahead of us."

"What of the case?" I asked as we began walking.

"Remaining in Treperro would be profitless under the circumstances, not to mention somewhat fraught. In your absence, I have spoken to Mr Tregrehan. He was not altogether satisfied by my assurances that the libellous cyclist would not trouble the village again. He did, however, give me a cheque as payment for our time, for which he demanded a receipt." Holmes smiled wolfishly. "I believe he intends to sue me should my assurances prove false."

"I might be tempted to do the same in his place. I should at the very least expect a name."

"So did he. I was unable to give it to him."

"I understood you knew who the fellow was."

"You will recall the case of Silver Blaze where I insisted upon an amnesty over the question of the horse's whereabouts. The same must apply here. After all, what is this man's crime? I dare say that if an offence against public decency is the worst this sleepy village ever knows, then it may count itself fortunate."

"Sleepy?" I said, alert to his unusual choice of adjective. "I thought you considered Treperro to be in the grip of some creeping decline."

"To which it must either become alert or suffer the fate of the apathetic and succumb. Who can afford to slumber in these restless days? _Tempora mutantur_. Change and decay, Watson. The two go hand in hand, as any churchgoer will tell you." [1]

We paused for a moment in our uphill climb to catch our breath. Together we stared out over the tiled rooftops at the wide expanse of empty ocean. The last of the seagulls were wheeling above our heads, their eerie cries making for a strange farewell at the end of an even stranger case.

"On a day like this," I said, "it's hard to imagine that a place like Treperro will ever change. It seems to exist out of time."

A moment of silence ensued before Holmes replied. "I understand from Mr Tregrehan that the parish council has agreed to the installation of a generator at the village hall. They intend to be the first along this coast to have electric lights installed. You see, my dear fellow, change is very much in the wind, yet you do not see it. Or rather you _choose_ not to see it. It does not chime with those romantic preconceptions of yours."

I was about to protest when Holmes continued.

"Our cyclist is not against change; you will recall Tregrehan's complaint that the fellow said nothing about Mr Dean's suffragist daughter. No, he makes a stand against injustice. I can agree with him on that point. '_Let justice roll down like the waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream_.' A sentiment with which I am sure you would agree, vicar."

We had paused beside a low stone wall, behind which the elderly clergyman, Mr Penhale, was hard at work tending an impeccable cottage garden. The temperate climate of Cornwall had sped the daffodils to an earlier grave than their London cousins, so all that remained were the bare green stalks and leaves, which the vicar was busy bending and securing with pieces of twine. At Holmes's call, the Reverend gentleman straightened his back with effort and offered an amiable, if pained smile.

"Good day to you, gentlemen," said he, taking in our travelling clothes. "Are you leaving us so soon?"

"I fear so," said Holmes.

Penhale nodded in sage understanding. "You have greater calls upon your time in London, no doubt. It would be selfish of us to expect our troubles to detain you unduly."

"On the contrary, it has been an experience I should have been loath to miss. However," he added, "all good things must come to an end. As must your activities, vicar."

There was that about his tone that made me think he had in mind more than the gentle gardening in which Penhale was engaged. The vicar too stared at him quizzically from beneath the brim of his broad straw hat and offered a gentle, open smile.

"I confess I do not understand your meaning, Mr Holmes."

"Come now, sir, let us not split hairs. All is known, Reverend."

"Holmes," I began, but he held up his hand to indicate that I should let the vicar speak.

"Who knows?" he demanded.

"At present, no one beyond our immediate circle."

"I see. And what do you intend to do with that knowledge?"

I was several steps behind in this conversation, and it was slowly dawning on me what they meant.

"That very much depends on you, Mr Penhale."

With a speed for which I should not have given him credit, he tore his hat from his head and threw it to the ground. He stood before us, bold and defiant, his chin up and a challenging look in his eye.

"I shall not wait for you to expose me, Mr Holmes. Therefore, I choose to expose myself!"

"Mr Penhale, please," I urged, glancing over my shoulder. "There may be ladies present."

"The vicar means metaphorically, Watson, although I dare say he would not shirk from the other should the occasion demand."

"I have never shirked from my responsibilities, Mr Holmes. My duty is to my God and my parishioners. Do not flatter yourself by believing that your reputation means anything to me. I was an army chaplain out in Indian at the time of the Mutiny. I used to sleep with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. Do you think you hold any terror for me?"

"I would not presume to do so, sir. You have already proved more than our equal on two wheels. Indeed, I admire your spirit, though I question your methods."

"Desperate times require desperate measures. I have been vicar here in Treperro for nigh on forty years. I have seen much, and heard much too. But never in all my years did I imagine I would live to see the day when greed took the place of decency and Christian charity."

"You refer to the eviction of Mr Trebah?"

He nodded sadly. "Old Ezra was a good man, and a friend of mine. We used to go out to the cliffs and watch the peregrines together."

His wistful expression hardened and his gaze took on a steely aspect.

"What happened to him was a disgrace and a judgement upon us all. Ezra had little money and it was inevitable that he would have to leave his home after William Trematon died. He had allowed him to pay a peppercorn rent that barely covered the maintenance of the building. I have no quarrel with that. It was the way it was done. Thrown out into the street and his possessions after him – had you seen what I saw that day, Mr Holmes, you would not question why I was driven to such ends. We all offered him shelter, we that knew him of old, but he was a proud man and would have none of it."

He sighed and I thought I detected a slump to his shoulders that had not been there before. "For several weeks, he slept on the bench outside the inn. Then, to my eternal shame, I told the authorities in Bodmin of his plight. In my ignorance, I thought it for the best. Had I been here the day they came, things might have been different. As it was, that lawyer Tregrehan told them he was feeble of mind and should be removed for his own safety. It was nonsense. Ezra was as sane as the next man. After I heard, I tried to intervene, but it was too late. A little while later, I received the news that he had died. I blame myself, but I blame them more."

The colour had risen to his pinched cheeks as he spoke and his back was once more ram-rod straight. He scarce seemed like the same man I had seen shuffling along the country lane earlier in the day.

"Men like Tregrehan have ridden roughshod over the people of this village for long enough!" he declared. "I have made it my duty to expose their corruption. They think to deceive us with their shop-bought goods and watered down ale! Well, I have spoken out, sirs. I have delivered the first blow for justice and the common good."

The stout-hearted old fellow terminated his speech with a defiant wave of his fist. "There, I have said my piece. Do with me what you will."

Holmes had been listening to this outpouring with an inscrutable expression. With the vicar as unrepentant and defiant as ever, he glanced across at me. I had already guessed at his intent and his next question did not come as any great surprise.

"Well, I think we have heard enough, don't you, Watson?"

"Quite enough," I agreed.

"Then we shall bid you good day, Mr Penhale."

The vicar started. "That is all?"

"Before I go, if you would allow me to make a suggestion," said Holmes. "You cannot continue this campaign undetected forever, Reverend. Sooner or later, your identity will be discovered, if it is not known already. Who then will speak for the older residents of Treperro when you have been defrocked? Perhaps a less radical method of airing your views is needed. You may find you have friends on the parish council, after all."

"Do you meant to tell me," I said when we had recommenced our journey back to the main road, "that quiet, mild-mannered clergyman was the naked fellow we chased on the bicycle? It hardly seems credible, Holmes."

He chuckled. "Your readers would not believe it if you set it down on paper, you mean?"

"I'm not sure I believe it."

"It was artfully done, Watson. Who would have suspected him? The role of a decrepit relic was one he played to perfection, almost to the point of caricature. He made only one mistake. When we arrived earlier today, he was cunning enough to recognise a threat to his deception and overplayed his hand. 122B Caxton Street indeed! You will find is a common failing of the amateur actor."

"You suspected him from the first?"

Holmes shook his head. "I was aware of a deception on his part. That he was not as infirm as he pretended was obvious from the scuffing visible on the inside of his shoes where the upright of the pedal arm rubs. However, many men adopt fanciful personas, not necessarily for the purposes of crime. Playing the part as one would wish it, rather than as it is, is not an indulgence solely reserved for those who tread the boards as a profession. No, my dear fellow, what convinced me of his guilt was his hands."

"Perhaps now you wouldn't mind telling me what colour they were?"

"They were brown."

"So he _was_ wearing gloves. Because of the paint, as I said."

"No, because of his hobby." Holmes smiled. "What you could not have seen was that they were the finest kid leather. That is why I wanted to follow him, to get a closer look at the gloves. I wasn't sure, you see, when I first espied him from the window."

"You have keener eyes than me," I said. "Although I must admit it wasn't his hands that first caught my attention."

"And, like the others in this village, you concentrated on the wrong aspect of his appearance. Kid leather, Watson. Spanish too, if I'm not mistaken. Now tell me, if you knew you were to be handling paint, would you wear your best gloves?"

"Indeed not."

"Exactly. Why then wear gloves when he had dispensed with all other garments? For the same reason he retained his shoes: protection. One cannot scramble across the cliffs after peregrines with sore feet. A man must walk, after all. As for his hands, I imagine he wished to retain that delicate touch so necessary to the oologist's art. Calloused hands and delicate eggshells are not happy bedfellows."

We had reached the top of the hill, where we found Mr Trevellick and his wagon waiting to convey us to Looe. We took our last look at Treperro, nestling quietly in the snug of the cliff as the evening light dulled and gave way to a sea of stars and a full moon.

"Well," said I, "it has been a remarkable case."

"One for the annals," Holmes commented.

"I'm not sure the public are ready for the full details."

He gave a light shrug. "Perhaps not. To a student of the history of crime, however, it illustrates one of the essential truths of my profession, that the more _outré _a thing is, the more commonplace it proves to be. I remember I reminded you of that very fact this morning when we discussed the role of hatred as a motive for criminal activity."

"I seem to recall that you disputed its importance."

"Indeed so. If we have gleaned nothing else from this case, it is that there is a far greater motive force at work in the universe. Reverend Penhale reminds of those lines of Scott's: '_Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land!_' [2]. Love, Watson, an unpredictable and often destructive force. There is no saying what a man might do under its influence."

"Even casting off his clothes?" I laughed.

"That is the least of the crimes for which it has to answer," Holmes returned with a smile. "All the same, I should like to see him try it in London. The policemen are swift with their truncheons and every small boy comes armed with a goodly supply of pebbles. I think it would not be too presumptuous of me to say that though the cyclist may thrive in the capital, the nude variety would be well advised against such a venture!"

**The End**

_And so another adventure comes to an end. I hope everyone enjoyed it. My thanks to everyone who reviewed and sent PMs – very much appreciated!_

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[1] The reference is to the hymn, 'Abide with me'. '_Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou, who changest not, abide with me_' (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847).

[2] _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ (1805), Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

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_**Sherlock Holmes & Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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